Until Next Time
by thezefronposter
Summary: John Watson has been stood up. Much to his dismay, those around him have noticed. When he's asked to give up his seat, a stranger comes to his rescue and pretends to be his date


"Sir, are you ready to order yet?"

The impatient pity in her eyes burned holes through John's ego. "Er- no. Just a few more minutes." The waitress' eyebrow elevated, her arms crossed low over her stomach. "Please," he added after she did nothing.

This seemed to appease her a bit, her arms falling gently to her side as she walked away from him, back from wherever she was staked out to watch and judge him.

John attempted a subtle glance at his phone, a difficult feat considering it was flipped upside down on the table. Fingers itching toward it, he looked around nonchalantly and then down toward the device only when his finger connected with the power button and he knew the digits would be displayed on the screen.

19:17.

His stomach dropped a bit lower, hastily letting go of the phone and allowing his eyes to comb his surroundings again. Imagining he didn't notice the multiple pairs of eyes on him, he searched only for the familiar face he was waiting for.

The diming spring light cascaded through the half-curtained arched windows, the delicate light casting the romantic atmosphere that was exactly why John had chosen this place.

Despite knowing she wasn't coming, John foolishly allowed himself to remain planted in that seat, allowed his eyes to dance around the room, scanning every face for her face. Pride wouldn't let him foolishly stand and walk out, allowing everybody in the room to confirm what they already suspected. Pride also wouldn't allow him to sit here and allow those around him to pity him. Especially the waitress, so smug in her- correct- assumption: John Watson had been stood up.

Finger's clenching, itching for something to do, his mind raced with thoughts of calling her, leaving under an invisibility cloak, pretending he was here alone this whole time, or finding her suddenly before him, a gush of apologies escaping her as she explained her tardiness. The last would be preferable, a visual show for those darting eyes accusing him of the truth. If she showed up now, even now, he would not need to do anything other than accept the silent recognition of error from those who had judged or pitied him.

 _Just how thick are you?_ He thought to himself, his head shaking indiscernibly and his hand clenching once again.

The low murmur of conversation that filled the room around him seemed to grow impossibly loud, the sound of it filling his every corner of consciousness until it was an intolerable din, an audible itch he couldn't scratch.

"Excuse me," said a voice so unexpected, John felt his body jerk in response, his heart skipping a beat. He found the source to be his waitress with her hands linked behind her back. Her head was tilted toward him, her mouth downturned and eyes wide and imploring. "I'm sorry, sir, it's been thirty minutes. If you aren't going to order, I must ask you to give up your seat to another couple- I mean-" her face flushed rapidly, her mouth becoming a thin line as she rushed to correct herself, "someone else." The sentence was finished like someone who knew their words were pointless but needing to be said anyhow.

"Right, er-" John said, face coloring with humiliation at needing to be asked to stand up. He searched for the words- any words- to say, but none came. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, suddenly too large and too dry. "Right," he said again, grabbing his phone off the table and moving it to his pocket as he stood.

"My God, I am sorry," came a voice from his right, deep with timber and sounding like a melody without a tune. John's head turned quickly to the source, a man standing before him with grace and unparalleled posture. His teeth flashed dazzlingly at John, his jacket already sliding off of his back and into the arms of the waitress. "I lost track of time, you know how that happens with me. Thank you for waiting. You know me so well."

John was struck into silence by the scene before him. A mass of black curls bounced gently around the man's pale face as his head turned to the waitress, telling her dismissively that he would have the scampi di gamberi for their starter.

The waitress stood dumbstruck looking at the man, affronted at the coat in her hands and the order barked at her. She said nothing in response, murder in her eyes as she dragged her feet away.

The romantic lighting that filled the room illuminated the man as he seemed to move in slow motion into the seat across from him, his lanky fingers lacing around a menu and scanning the words it held with no further words to John.

He was all angles, cheekbones protruding to accent deep eyes, framed by a bushel of dark eyebrows. His cheeks were sullen, his jawline defined from a long, dainty neck. In fact, many aspects of the man were dainty, contrasting by simultaneous edges and mysterious attitude.

John felt his body elevate in temperature, suddenly the room was much too warm. He wanted to ask what the devil he thought he was doing, but couldn't find the words. Barely had his mouth opened to attempt the words when, behind the menu, the other man spoke.

"Just go with it," he said, words coming out as though they were long-time friends and they were discussing the attributes of something especially mundane. His eyes remained glued to the menu, his lanky fingers flipping the thing over with a casual air.

"But wh-"

"Sherlock," he said, eyes still not meeting him.

"John," he said impatiently. "But wh-"

"Because you clearly needed help and your options were limited," said Sherlock.

"But wh-"

He interrupted him by making a great show of putting down his menu, sweeping his hands together to create a temple that touched his nose. His eyes were set on John then, and under the intensity, John found he would have preferred the indifference he had shown before.

"I was not about to let an army doctor, only recently back from the war, with no family or friends who is only just now attempting to return to dating get stood up and publically humiliated. So where does that leave my options? I could come up and pretend to deliver a message, but why then could she not have called or texted you herself? If she could contact me to pass a message, it seems unlikely that she would be unable to tell you. Alternatively, I could have come and offered to have dinner because I saw you were alone, but you have a great deal of pride and I doubt very much that would have spared you any more embarrassment than if you were to simply leave. Therefore, my only option was to come up and pretend to be the one who was late. It spared you the public humiliation, proved everybody's assumptions incorrect, and also placed the sole embarrassment on myself. I am the jerk who was late and made you wait, you are the hero for waiting so long and having faith that I would come."

The words came out in a blur, the eye contact he maintained as he spoke was entrancing, impossible to look away from. John's head spun from information, still reeling from when the man said-

"How the devil did you know-"

"Elementary," Sherlock said with an irritated wave of his left hand.

"Stop interrupting me!" burst John, his infatuation fading at the blatant disrespect. "I am grateful for what you are doing, but you can't say you're trying to help and then choose to talk to me like I'm stupid." John's mouth formed a hard line, his hands both forming fists until his fingernails hurt from digging into his skin.

A few rapid blinks from Sherlock was enough to make John feel better. "I-" he stammered, and John had the sudden, distinct feeling that this man wasn't normally spoken to in that manner. A small well of satisfaction bloomed in John's chest. "I am sorry," said Sherlock, though it sounded like a question, the words foreign to him.

"Don't be sorry," said John with a light shake of his head. "Be better."

At this, the edges of Sherlock's mouth twitched up, his head cocking to one side. "Alright," he said with a new tone in his voice. He explained thoroughly, albeit rapidly, how he knew John to be an army doctor, to be on his first date in a while, and of his lack of connections.

"Bloody brilliant. Laid out like that, it does seem- what'd you said- elementary?" John admitted, a goofy smile stuck on his face like gum to a shoe.

His hand swept the table again, a light shrug accompanying it. "The visual evidence exists to see, but few can observe."

The waitress returned then, her hands baring their scampi di gamberi. She placed both gently down before them, steam rolling off the food in a fashion the filled John's mouth with saliva.

"Are you two ready to order or do you need a few more moments to decide?"

John realized with a flurry of nerves that in the frenzy of it all, he hadn't thought to look at the menu. Sure, he had scanned the thing when he first arrived but hadn't decided on anything. He opened his mouth to ask for more time when Sherlock spoke for him.

"I would like the osso buco and my _date_ ," he said the word with a heavy meaning, "will have the arrosto di maiale. Also, a bottle of your Caprili Brunello di Montalcino Riserva." He swept the menus from the table gracefully and put them in the hands of the waitress, already looking away from her before the menus were even out of his hands.

She forced a smile while John put an immense amount of effort into hiding his. "Great, I'll have it out as soon as I can," she said through tight teeth.

John waiting until she was out of earshot to giggle like mad. "You reckon she'll spit in our food?"

"I rather think not, she's working paycheck-to-paycheck and wouldn't risk the dip in the tip."

They both smiled then, the warm feeling returning to John as he saw the smile lines that formed around the man's eyes.

"What'd you order for me anyway?" asked John, who knew nothing of Italian food.

"A meal you're guaranteed to love," said Sherlock confidently.

John's eyebrow cocked up on one side. "Oh yeah? And if I don't?" he asked, a daring, playful note dancing in his tone.

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a long moment. Finally, after considering, he said: "Then you will not need to go out with me again."

John's stomach simultaneously flipped and churned. Were they on a real date? Were they mates having a meal? John had repressed his desires for so long, he wasn't sure how to be open about expressing them. Was this man- this beautiful man- offering proper dates? Could John even bear to open himself up to the desires he'd always secretly dreamed of?

When he attempted a nervous swallow, his throat was too dry to get the job done.

The man across from him seemed to read his thoughts, suddenly moving to a more professional posture, his hands clasping each other. "I apologize, I have misread- I mean to say, I misspoke. Forgive me."

"No!" exclaimed John because it was all he could get out. "No," he repeated after another moment, more controlled this time. "It's fine. It's all fine. I don't mind."

A slow smile tugged at Sherlock's lips, his eyes falling to the starter before them. His delicate fingers lightly grabbed a piece and brought it to his mouth in a way that was both mundane and absurdly erotic.

As promised, John's food was among the most delicious things that had ever been in his mouth. Even if it hadn't been, John would have lied to secure a second date with the dark, funny, and handsome man that sat across the table from him. They were the same, the pair of them. Not completely, though. Sherlock was cold, analytical, and mysterious and John was reserved, impatient, and lacked control. They were different, Sherlock needing explanations of how his actions impacted others. John needing constant explanations for how Sherlock reached his conclusions.

Yet nevertheless, they were the same. Reserved, hard to connect with. Cold, slow to trust. Together they fell, their hard shells crashing together to expose their softer insides with little resistance. They made each other laugh, the wine warmed their insides and assisted with bonding, and John found that he had been silly this whole time.

All this time terrified to embrace his attraction to men, all this time forcing himself to be with only women, ignoring his attractions. He doubted he could have held himself back from the man that shared dinner with him that night. Across from that man, John had the best date of his life.

John hesitated as the two walked out, Sherlock having paid the bill- plus an extremely generous tip- because he said John's army pension wouldn't allow the stretch of the budget. (He was right, of course.) Normally, after such an amazing date, he would have invited the other back to his flat.

Yet-

No. This was special. He would wait. He didn't want to rush things with this man who was filling his heart with more joy than he had felt before.

"Until next time, John," said Sherlock in a low voice, his hand extended out toward the John.

John tried not to smile, not wanting Sherlock to mistake it for mockery. A handshake at the end of the date. He barely knew him, yet it seemed appropriate. John took his hand, gave it a firm shake, and held on a little too long.

"I look forward to it, Sherlock."

When they withdrew, the silence was thick with tension. Sherlock turned around after a small eternity spread out between them, turned up the collar on his jacket, and strode away. He moved so smoothly, John was reminded of ice dancers.

Watching until Sherlock disappeared in the distance, John took a deep breath, closing his eyes to remember every detail of the beautiful evening. This wasn't the end of it, either. The thought put an honest-to-God smile on his face, a ridiculous smile that was undeniably one of someone who was falling in love.


End file.
